A Perfect Storm
by lindsayandhalstead
Summary: A S5 AU where Erin never left. It's going to follow the events of season 5, as if Erin were still there. Rated M for future chapters.
1. A Perfect Storm

**A/N: AU to 5x01 where Erin never leaves. This also disregards the entire fiasco after 4x16, so Jay never moved out, and he doesn't have a wife, and basically yeah I'm erasing that horrible storyline because I can. Also because of that, Voight never broke up Linstead as partners, Jay stopped Erin from going in with the gun, and voila, nobody got in trouble. #ThePowerOfFanon**

 **I've been playing with the idea of rewriting all the episodes this way, keeping the canon storyline, with the exception of Erin still being there. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it!  
**

* * *

It's a perfect storm.

The term doesn't get used often in their line of work, but this qualifies. Everything goes wrong from the very second they go in. The kids that they didn't know were going to be inside; people getting caught in the crossfire of gunshots and screams—screams that still echo in her ears, as she wipes the little girl's blood off her hands. When Will comes out with an update, she hears certain words, but the shock of what happened has her numb. Looking down at the bloody white tissues she's holding, she knows that the little body she carried into the hospital will probably cause her insomnia for nights to come.

 _Bad shape. Doing everything they can._

Her eyes flick to her partner, and their eyes meet. No words are exchanged, because no words are necessary. Not this time. Not ever. She asks about the other two victims and nods at Will's reply. She wishes she could have a moment, but at least for now, she needs to pull herself together, so they can find whoever did this.

They question the victim that survived together, not having a clue that the worst is yet to come.

* * *

"We're stopping at home," she murmurs in the car, watching him nod. They both need to shower, get a fresh change of clothes. Preferably burn the ones soaked in innocent blood, but burying them in a plastic bag and throwing them away will have to do. Erin has no idea how many shirts she's lost to blood stains, and at some point, she has stopped counting. Some she could save by soaking in ice-cold water, for some it was too late.

She lets him set the water temperature, while she discards her clothes on the floor, not bothering to aim for the hamper. She knows that on a normal day he would nag her about making a mess and not cleaning after herself, but this time he just waits for her to join him, before closing the shower door. Neither of them has the energy for anything but standing there with the water washing away the red stains, as they try to offer each other some comfort.

"I hate it when it's kids," he whispers, and she nods knowingly. She does too. Seeing such an innocent life caught in the crossfire is painful, and it makes her feel like nothing she ever does will be good enough. Like the cause they're fighting for, is a lost one. Pressing a light kiss on his cheek, she shuts down the water and reaches for the towel. They're both in a hurry to get back to work, to catch whoever did this monstrosity.

"It could've been a lot worse," she says, before stepping out, and her words stay with both of them for a while after. It's not meant to belittle the tragedy of the little girl getting shot, but knowing the number of kids inside, and the bullets flying like they did, it could've been a massacre.

* * *

They finally get a location on the girl's mother, and they head there right after leaving their apartment. They might have washed of the blood, but the stain of tragedy is impossible to wash down the drain.

"I hate this part," she says. Jay is the only person she would openly admit that to, with the exception of Hank. But notifying somebody that the person they love most is in critical condition or worse—dead; watching their entire world collapse in front of their eyes, it takes a certain toll.

"Ramona Williams?" She waits for the woman to nod, and then continues. "We need to talk to you for a second," Erin says, trying to keep her voice normal. Truth be told, she's done so many of these, she's surprised her voice still shakes a little. She mentioned it to Hank once, and he only shook his head, telling her that when she doesn't feel anything doing a notification like that, then it will be cause for concern.

She remembers his words so clearly. _That's the one part of the job, Erin, that never gets easier. No matter how many times you do it._

She understands now, as they follow the woman to the storage room. Jay takes the lead, explaining the situation. They work as a team, as always. While Jay breaks the news, Erin offers comfort, and as much assurance as she can due to the circumstances.

She nods when Jay promises the mother that they'll do anything in their power to find whoever did this, and puts a hand on her back as they lead her to their car. The silence on the way to the hospital is deafening, and the only thing breaking it is an occasional sob.

They don't talk on their way back to the precinct, but his hand does find hers, and somehow, that's enough.

* * *

She knows something is wrong when he exits Voight's office. He went in to update Voight, but when he exits, he doesn't look at her—at anyone—just walks out of the bullpen. But his hands are shaking, and his head is down, and she doesn't need another reason to follow him downstairs. She ignores the concerned looks that Adam and Kevin send her way, and tries to catch up with his fast strides.

"Jay, what's going on?" She asks when they reach the most private spot of the precinct. The room with the infamous cage is the only place that doesn't have security cameras installed. Concern washes through her when she hears his erratic breaths. He turns around, as if he hadn't realized she had followed him. His words come out then—unconnected. "That girl. She was shot. A 9mm. I shot her, Erin. I shot her."

His fist slams into a wall, and her heart breaks for him a thousand times. "How?"

"I don't know. I fired one round, and it hit the offender. I don't know."

"Okay. It's gonna be okay," she murmurs. She knows he needs her to be strong now. "We need to talk to a ballistics expert."

"Yeah, Voight's waiting to go now. I just needed a moment."

She nods. Wishing she could do more, she places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She squeezes lightly to remind him she's there, she's his partner, and she's there for whatever he needs.

Somehow, she doesn't think that's enough anymore.

* * *

"How did it go?" She's waiting for him outside, avoiding Voight's glare from across the parking lot.

"The bullet that shot the little girl came from my gun," he blurts, getting it out there as painlessly as possible. "But I know I fired only one round. I swear."

"Hey, babe. I believe you. You don't have to convince me." She pauses. "What did Voight say?"

"He said if that's true, I have nothing to worry about. Then he said it's tricky, because of the spotlight on the precinct. I don't know. I'm supposed to take some time off. Tomorrow I have to have an interview with the shooting team."

She knows that's the worst part. Sitting around, waiting for others to solve a thing for you. She never could do it, even when it came as a direct order, so she understands the nervous pacing in front of the car. His whole body is tense.

"I'll drive you home," she says, getting into the car, away from the prying eyes of their sergeant.

"Thanks."

"Whatever you need, Jay. I'm here. Don't shut me out." The advice comes from personal experience. She knows how easy it is, but she's not letting him slip through her fingers. If this is how he felt after Nadia died, she hates herself even more for pushing him away. For not allowing herself to get lost in his comfort, and instead getting lost in oblivion the booze offered.

"I appreciate it."

* * *

He jumps to his feet when she comes home that night, his wondering eyes aimed at her. A simple glance around the apartment tells her how upset he is, and that he's probably been staring at the wall, thinking about what happened for a last couple of hours.

There are dishes in the sink, very uncharacteristic for him, and his shoes are kicked off on the floor. Judging by the kitchen's state, he hasn't eaten anything, because everything is exactly how they left it that morning, when they left the apartment so happy, so clueless. She's glad she thought of picking up some groceries. Setting the mushrooms and the zucchini on the counter, she searches the cupboards for the pasta container. She might not be a master chef, but she knows enough not to let them go hungry.

"Anything?" She shakes her head.

"Not yet. We're waiting for some leads, so Hank send us all home." He nods, looking as though he has no will to live left. She sets to chopping up vegetables. "You hungry?"

"Not really."

But he eats, and he has to admit that the warm food settles down his upset stomach just a little, and the simple action of eating makes him feel somehow normal.

"I think I'm gonna go to bed," he says, after he empties his plate, and she nods, wishing there was something she could do for him.

"Go, I'm right behind you." She takes an extra couple of minutes, doing all the dishes, cleaning the coffee maker. She knows him. He's so much like her in that way. He needs time to himself right now, to collect himself, and try to make sense of it. He would never say it, would never push her away, but she knows it's what he needs, and that's exactly what she gives. Erin knows that he knows she's there, and she hopes he'll reach out when he's ready.

She doesn't sleep much that night, watching his chest rise and fall with deep breaths. It's around 1 am, and she knows she only has about four hours of sleep left, but still, the oblivion doesn't come.

At some point, she curls up by his side, his arm wrapped around her waist. He shifts once in a while, his slumber everything but peaceful, as he battles demons in his sleep. She knows better than anyone, that when that demon is yourself, things get even more warped, more complicated. She doesn't pull away, and he only keeps pulling her closer to his body. His hand slips under her shirt, setting on the warm skin, and it's then he seems to calm down, but her eyes still don't close, and her mind still refuses to shut down.

Her hand reaches to the hand on her waist, and she laces their fingers together. That's how she wakes two hours after shutting her eyes, when the sound of her alarm wakes them both up.

* * *

She's there when he comes out after the interview, sitting right next to Voight, springing on her feet when she sees him. She's always just there, when his world is falling apart, and he hopes it stays like this forever. But the look in her eyes tells a tragic story, and she's the one to pull him aside, and tell him the news.

She's there when his world tilts (again), when all he sees is white, and the world loses all colours. It's her hand in his, preventing him from having a full-on meltdown in the middle of the parking lot. He focuses on her fingers between his, the softness of of her skin, and warmth radiating from her, until he can finally breathe again.

Then she's there when he's yelling at his brother, shooting apologetic looks at the red-headed doctor, and she's there with her hand on his shoulder when they exit the hospital and he finally breaks.

He's sworn to serve and protect, and yet yesterday, he killed an innocent young girl. A girl who will never graduate, never get to drive a car, never have a first beer. She will never fall in love, or see the world. Because of him. Because he took that away from her.

"Hey, I got you," she murmurs, repeating the same words over and over again, until they have the desired effect and he calms down enough for her to get him into the Sierra.

He insists on not going home, because he can still do desk duty, and she gives in, knowing the feeling of helplessness that must be overwhelming him. She drives him back to the precinct, where she gets a full-on lecture from Voight for not having the head in the case, because she's too busy coddling her boyfriend.

"You can yell at me all you want," she mutters to herself. "It's all for nothing." Al gives her a funny look for talking to herself, and she shakes her head. Because her primary concern is Jay, and even though she obliges her boss and buries her head in the case, chasing lead after lead, she still glances at him every now and then, with a mixture of concern and comfort.

The truth is, she's at a loss for words. It's not like she can say _I'm sorry you killed a girl by accident._ There are no words, nothing she can do, to make this pain less acute. No comforting gesture that can make this okay.

But she's there in the background all day, confiscating his phone when he spends too much time reading the nasty comments that are spreading all over social media. She even barges into Hank's office—something he's clearly not too happy about, but tough luck, because she needs some answers.

She patiently listens to Hank's explanation, when she finally pries the answers from him. He was likely expecting this, because he knows her too well to think she was going to sit around and wait. Especially when it comes to her partner, and yes, despite him not being too happy about it, her boyfriend.

Then she asks a single question.

"We have his back, yes or no?" She's not asking for herself. She knows she would rather die than not have her partner's back. She's asking if the unit does. If he, as their leader, does. Because a while ago, when during a different case, murder accusations were thrown around, she doesn't exactly remember the team being there for him much. She sure wishes she would have pushed harder back then, but he made it clear he didn't want her help, and their relationship as friends—as partners—was still so new and she didn't want to overstep any boundaries.

"Until the end," he promises. Her eyes soften, and she pats his back awkwardly before exiting his office.

* * *

"I don't know what you did," she admits, "but thank you." Jay is standing up there, as he should, looking as handsome as ever in the suit she picked, because he was too out of it to do it. His face is somber, but he always looks handsome to her. She might even allow him to go a couple more days without shaving, because this scruff is making her man very nice to look at.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Voight mutters back at her. She knows he did something, because the heavy fire Jay was under didn't just go away. Despite all the comforting and reassuring words she said to him in the last couple of days, she was seriously wondering if he'd get out of this with his job. Something happened that made it end this way—that turned Jay from a sacrificial lamb into a goddamn hero.

"Why don't you take the rest of the day?"

"Thanks," she says. "I appreciate it."

She waits for Jay, as he walks away from the crowd after the press calms down with the questions. Her little smile is meant just for him, because she knows he won't take it the wrong way. They both know they don't have any reasons to smile right now, because even with Jay cleared, the girl is still dead.

It's meant simply as an offer of a little sunshine on a cloudy day, because she knows from a reliable source (he's told her so many times) that he loves her smile more than anything in the world.

"I have no idea what prompted this," he admits, and she shakes her head.

"No idea either." Even though she has some ideas. Blackmail for example. "But I'm not complaining."

"Neither am I."

"You'll be okay," she promises, for what seems like a hundredth time that day. "You just need some time to make sense of it."

"Yeah. Listen, there is something I want to do. You can go back to work, I'll be fine."

"I'll drive you."

And he doesn't say where, and she doesn't ask, because that's how well they know each other. And as she stops in front of Williams's house, she sees his eyes shine with tears.

"You want me to come with you?"

"I think this is something I need to do by myself," he explains, and she nods, having expected this answer. She sits in the car, watching him do one of the hardest things in his life, and doesn't ask questions when he sits next to her. She doesn't speak. She just takes him home, where he can fall apart without the world seeing.

Home, where they sit on the floor of the living room, and her body supports his, and her heart breaks with every sob that comes out of him.

Home, where she finally realizes that if this is the _for worse_ part of _for better or for worse,_ there is still nothing that could make her walk out on him. It's rather odd, she thinks, that this—them sitting on the floor while he cries his pain out—is the moment she realizes that someday she's going to marry this guy.

* * *

They're lying in bed, both comfortable in their pyjamas. Her head is resting on his chest, cocking up slightly to be able to see him. His lips touch hers ever so slightly with a sigh. "I don't know what I would've done today, if you weren't here." Because however hard this day was, he knows it would have been unbearable without her silent, but unwavering support, and constant comfort.

It's the moment he realizes he would rather spend the rest of his life unhappy, but with her, rather than happy with someone else.

"I'll always be here," she promises. And means it.

"Think you can sleep without your pillows tonight?" He asks reluctantly. "I just need to feel you close."

"Of course," she whispers back. "Whatever you need."

"Are we okay?" She asks after a while, and his lips curve into the smallest of smiles. She didn't ask if he's okay. She asked if they are. Because whatever he feels, she feels it too, and whatever he's going through, she's not a silent observer. And he knows this, because if it were the other way around, he'd feel the same. And if he thought he couldn't possibly love her more, in that moment, he knows he was wrong.

"Not yet," he replies. "But we will be." He knows this with perfect clarity, because as long as she's there, nuzzling her face into her neck, he will always be okay.

He pulls her closer, as close as he can without breaking her. But it would take more than just him to break her. She's so strong, strong for him, strong enough for help him carry his demons.

Strong enough to help him weather any storm. Even a perfect one.


	2. More Than Okay

**A/N: I was so thrilled at the response that I got for the first episode rewrite, so I hope you like this one too. (you better, I had to force myself to watch CPD to write it, even though it's currently not on top of my list of comfort shows (get it, since it causes me pain?)).**

* * *

"On days like these, I'm damn glad to have that detective badge," he murmurs against the pillow. He's lying on the side, facing her, which gives him a perfect view of her sleepy eyes. She opens them with difficulty, then gives up and closes them again. "Otherwise we wouldn't be able to escape patrol."

She sighs with content and nods affirmatively. "True that. I overheard Burgess saying she has to wake up at 6 to go help." His arms sneak around her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss that was supposed to go to her cheek ends up somewhere on her neck, but she doesn't care. Mornings like these are the fuel for both of them, especially after the tough couple of weeks they've had. She laces her fingers through his hair.

She's glad they got to sleep in, since the night had been anything but peaceful—Jay waking up several times with a nightmare. It had gotten so bad that he offered to go sleep on the couch, so at least one of them could get some rest, but Erin refused to leave his side. So she stayed, kissing the nightmares away until he finally got some sleep.

"Overtime doesn't suck though," she teases. "You gotta meet your half of the mortgage, or I'm gonna kick you out. Or worse—sell that TV you love so much."

At the shocked expression on his face, she giggles. Now, Erin Lindsay isn't the person to giggle, and she would never admit that to anyone, but with him, it's just impossible not to. She doesn't understand why she laughs at all his jokes, and chuckles at his puns, and giggles above all. Maybe it's a part of a Halstead charm, but maybe, it's just that she's insanely in love with this man, and despite all the tragedies, he's the one bright thing in her life.

She jumps in the shower, letting him have an extra five minutes of sleep time. They're right on schedule, until he jumps in the shower with her, making them both late (and here they say women are always the reason for tardiness). She's in the middle of making coffee, when Voight calls with the news. Jay knows something is wrong from taking one glance at her face, and before she hangs up, he's on the move.

No breakfast, no coffee. But she does manage to pour one to-go cup for them to share on their way to the scene of the bombing, and she does stuff a piece of toast in his mouth while he's tying his shoes.

Some mornings you just have to improvise. And that shower was well worth skipping breakfast.

* * *

"He just blew up a damn street festival." She feels the anger, the frustration, bubbling beneath the surface. She places her hand on his arm, just so he knows she's there, and she understands how he feels. The one in which April is speaking to them in sounds more than condescending, and it makes her free hand form a fist, but she knows everyone has the right to get treatment—even if that person happens to be a terrorist.

It's interesting, she things, how both of them are highly explosive, short-tempered even, particularly with cases like these. But it's never both of them at the same time. And when one of them is going through something like that, it's the partner's job to keep them in check. It's one of the things she loves most about working with Jay.

Her phone rings, but she keeps her hand on his arm, and she feels him relax a little.

"Bad news. They think an officer could have had something to do with this." The tension is back, and this time, it's both of them.

* * *

Time always go by in a different way when they're working a case—faster somehow. They work the suspect together—going at him hard—even harder when Voight threatens to step in. They earn a proud look from Al, which in Jay's experience, isn't easy to do.

It's hard to remember to take five minutes every now and then, to regroup, refocus. And that's why he's so glad to have a partner he can count on. A partner who catches up with him when he tries to sneak those five minutes away from the prying eyes of the unit.

"What's up?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't say anything for a while, but she's looking at him with those eyes—those expectant eyes, and she doesn't just overcome his walls. She crumbles them on the ground, his defence rendered useless. "It's just, sometimes we go weeks without having to shoot someone. And lately, every time I shoot my gun, I seem to kill someone."

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from showing how sad she feels for him. "I know." She could tell him all the clichés, about how it was either her or them, how he didn't have a choice. But she knows it wouldn't help. She's been standing there, in his shoes, too often to offer such a hypocrite comfort.

So she does something out of the ordinary. Something she doesn't do often in this building (but all the time at home). Her comfort comes in a form of a kiss, because damn being professional, it's what Jay needs.

"Some days our job is harder than the others," she murmurs softly, still leaning against him. "It'll get better." He nods, leaning his forehead against hers for a split second. "Good job in there by the way."

He smiles. "What are you talking about? You cracked him."

"Couldn't have done it without you."

* * *

"I know this is not the right time, but god you're so hot when you say stuff like ' _Don't say another word or you die'_. He smirks, and she bites her lip. The next second he has her pinned against the locker room, kissing her until she can't breathe anymore.

Maybe it's the perfect time.

"Later," he murmurs, and she nods, turning back to get her stuff from the locker before they head out for a well-deserved beer at Molly's. She wants to go home and sleep for two days, but she also needs to be there for Kim, and she needs to toast to a man who saved hundreds of lives only to end up being called a terrorist.

"Can you imagine though?" She asks with a heavy heart while they're walking towards the bar. "His partner, the person who should've had his back bullied him. Makes me even more glad I have you as a partner." She accompanies the words with a typical shoulder bump, and he grins back at her.

"Likewise, partner." Because he doesn't know how he would make it through days like these without her steady support.

* * *

It breaks her heart. She wonders if he knows he speaks during his nightmares, if he knows what he cries out, or how many times he apologizes. He never talks about it after he wakes up, always shrugging it off, as if it's just a normal bad dream. But they both know it isn't.

It's a demon, sitting on his chest, making it hard to breathe—to exist. She tries. She tries her best to be there for him; she holds him at night so he can sleep; she offers to talk—an offer he has yet to take her up on.

So she does something else instead.

* * *

He's late. It's way past eleven when he parks in front of their building, pulling out the take-out bags he picked up on his way. He stops at their mail-box, pulling out the three-days-worth post that Erin always forgets to pick up. Armed with food and bills he makes his way home.

Home. Home that's only home because she makes it home. Home, where she's waiting, probably wondering where he was. Or maybe sleeping already. It's been a hard case—again. They all seem to be hard these days.

But the light is still on when he closes the door behind him, setting his keys next to hers on the counter. It's a simple gesture, but it always fills him with content. It reminds him how far they've come.

Her body is wrapped in one of those fluffy blankets and if eyes don't fail him, that's his hoodie she's wearing. She looks up from her book and meets his eyes. She doesn't look upset. Concerned maybe, but not upset, or angry with him for being five hours late.

"You ok?" She asks, and he feels so guilty for making her worry.

"Yeah. I brought food." That makes her smile. It's ridiculous how little it takes for those dimples to show him that the world isn't such a nasty place.

"I love you," he tells her, because sometimes he can't hold it in. Because it gets so overwhelming, and she deserves to hear it. Loud and often.

"I love you too," she says, sounding somewhat surprised and somewhat sad.

"I went to one of those meetings."

There is relief in her eyes as she exhales. A week ago, after trying everything else, she wrote a list of places where the PTSD meetings took place on a post-it note and taped it to his screen. They almost had a fight about it, because he kept saying he was fine, that he doesn't need help. That was until she looked at him with her eyes full of tears.

" _After Nadia died, that's what I kept saying too. That I was fine. That I can get through it on my own. That I don't need help."_ He remembers the tears trickling down her cheeks and how she flinched away from him when he tried to hold her. " _It's okay if you can't talk to me, Jay. I get it. But please, please talk to someone. Before this thing eats you alive."_

She hasn't brought it up since, greeting him with a smile the next morning, but her tears and her words stuck with him. Because it was one thing to be hurting—but to be hurting her?

So he went tonight. He wouldn't say that sharing his pain made everything better, but he felt a bit lighter, and that was something. It was progress.

"I'll keep going," he promises, earning a sincere smile. She gets up, letting the blanket fall. She wraps her arms around his, resting her head on his torso.

"Thank you."

"No, thank you. For giving me what I needed, even though I didn't know I needed it."

He thinks he hears her mumble something, before she lets go and launches for food. He grins, knowing that he might not be completely fine, but they were more than okay.


	3. Perfect End To Any Day

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who in any way lets me know they're liking this! Thank you for taking the time and making this girl happy. You, yes you, you're the best.**

If you guys have any wishes/ideas for what you want to see Erin and Jay do before/in the middle/after cases, you can always shoot your ideas to me. I can't promise to include every single suggestion, but if something sparks my muse, why not? :)

* * *

The call comes in at around eleven. She's sprawled across the entire mattress, trying to make up for the fact that the bed is too empty. She groans, the two hours of sleep she got not being enough after the last case they worked. It never seems to be enough lately.

She can't say she didn't welcome the call, since tossing and turning didn't really give her the much-needed rest. When she arrives on the scene, it's already crowded. Guess she shouldn't have taken the time for that second coffee.

It's one of those cases that reminds her it's a scary time to be a woman in. But has there ever been a time when it wasn't? Will there ever be a time, when women won't be the most common prey of all the predators?

She catches up Antonio, and watches Eva plead for him to take the case. There is no doubt in her mind that he will. Erin knows Eva has won, as soon as she opened her mouth. It's personal. Why is everything personal lately? Erin would love an opportunity to gut the person who did this to her, the very same way they did.

"We'll take it," he calls out to Jerry, and Erin accompanies that with a nod.

"You need anything? I can finish up here, if you need to take Eva home."

"Could you? That'd be great. Thanks, Erin."

"Yeah, you got it. Bye, Eva."

"Bye, Erin. It was good to see you again, despite the…"

Erin nods. The circumstances are anything but nice. Yet it is good to see Antonio's daughter again. It reminds her how quickly the time goes by—it seems like she was a little girl only yesterday, and now she's this young woman, applying to colleges if Antonio's word is anything to go by. It makes her think about all the dangers that loom out there, at college campuses, and she makes a mental note to have a conversation about it with Eva. She might take it better not coming from her parents.

* * *

"What did that nail ever do to you, babe?"

She freezes at the use of a familiar pet name in the work place, and involuntarily glances around to make sure nobody's heard it. Upton is at her desk, but she's pretending she didn't hear anything, and that will have to do. Only then she notices that she did actually chew her nail off—a habit she hasn't gone back to in years.

"It's just these girls. They have no one. I just keep thinking how many of them end up in some alley, nameless; how many of these guys we will never catch."

"I know. But we catch the ones we can. That's really all we can do."

"Yeah." It's hard to let that be enough, when she wants to save everyone. And it doesn't mean solving cases like this is any easier; and it doesn't mean her mind won't go places when it's done.

 **Penny for your thoughts.**

Then another one.

 **You thinking about me?**

Erin rolls her eyes. She just knew this new desk arrangement would cause something like that. But Voight has been acting strange—stranger than usual—and this case is still getting to her, so she plays along, needing some outlet.

 **Cause you have that look on your face… -J**

Another post-it ends on her desk. She grins against her will, reaching into her drawer for her blue stack. He looks at her in expectation of a note, and she scribbles on the post-it, before sliding it over.

 **Maybe** **-E**

 **Shouldn't we be, idk, working? -E**

He shakes his head at her. They're waiting for information, so there isn't actually anything they can do at the moment.

 **You scared to make your dad mad? -J**

 **Well I never got busted for passing notes in class, so maybe he'll go easy on me. -E**

 **You? Not so much. -E**

"What are you guys, in fifth grade?"

"Yeah, heard you never got that far," she shoots back, her cheeks turning a little bit red. Ruzek just laughs it off, lightening her mood immediately. It reminds her that despite some harsh, sarcastic words said between them, he's actually a softie, and he really enjoys having this bickering thing going between them.

 **The things I'll do to you tonight… -J**

She gasps, tearing the post-it immediately, before somebody else can read it.

"Get back to work," she mutters, hating that he can ruffle her with a few simple words. But her burning cheeks are the visible proof of what that last note did to her.

* * *

"I don't know what to do." It's painful for Antonio to admit that, because he's always the man who knows what to do. He's always the one with the cleanest moral compass, but there was some truth in what Voight said to him. He also knows the unit knows how things went down, especially Erin, who can always put two and two together when it comes to Hank.

She places her hand on his arm as a way of comfort, and her heart breaks for what he's going through. Because they've all had cases they took too personal. They've all had cases that went horribly wrong.

"What you do, is thank god that awful man no longer walks this earth. Then you go home and you try your best to focus on what's good in your life—like that beautiful daughter of yours. Because you'll know that no matter what, the world is a little bit safer tonight."

He looks at her, long and hard. Jay shifts next to her. He nods, agreeing with every single word, until Dawson finally nods.

"You're right."

"Get outta here, man. But if you need anything…"

"Yeah, yeah. I know where you both live."

They smile watching their friend leave, their hands drawn together like magnets, until their fingers lace and the warmth of their hands reminds them of something else that's good in the world.

* * *

"Why did you text me to meet you here?"

"I figured we could eat out today," he suggests, pointing to one of their favourite places at the waterfront. Her eyes sparkle, and she doesn't have to say that she loves the idea. He treats her with double desert, and after dinner, he suggests a stroll along the beach. She agrees with a nod.

"You know you're going too fast?"

"Well forgive me. I haven't been on a walk in a while. And by that, I mean a walk with a sole purpose of going for a walk."

He laces his arm with hers. "Let me set the pace."

"Don't I always?" She murmurs, but she relaxes and enjoys the warm breeze on her face, the last rays of sun on her skin, and his constant presence by her side. It does feel good, she thinks, to slow down a bit, like he suggested.

She ponders about what she said to him—about him setting the pace. She realizes it's not true. It's always been the other way around. He let her set the pace; he waited for her to come to him that night when she showed up on his doorstep, and that night when he helped her bring in her new couch. He let her take all the big steps in their relationship. The biggest proof, she thinks, was in the fact he let her say it first. Those three words, or in her case six words, because she threw in a _completely,_ when she asked him, in a specifically _her_ way if he wanted to move in with her.

The one regret she has regarding them, is waiting so long to say it—denying him those words for so long, when deep down she knew they were true long before she actually said them. She knew he was waiting for her sake, because she wasn't ready to heart it. She can't help but spook easily when it comes to that. It's just the way she's wired.

"You know, someone who has frequent nightmares, is going to notice when somebody else has them," he gives her a cue, breaking her out of her daydream. He doesn't mean to push, but it does seem that as he's getting better, she's getting worse. Jay can't help to think they'll never both be okay at the same time, and that's just something he's not willing to live with.

"I know. I just… You distance yourself, you know? I mean you care, but you can't care too much, or you wouldn't survive a year on the job. But lately, I've been caring too much," she admits, as much to herself as to him. "I've been taking all the cases home with me, and I don't know how to stop. And I didn't have that problem before, so I don't know how to just go back." He knows this. She remembers what he once said to her. _You leave nothing for yourself._

She asked him if he wanted her to care less, and he said he wanted her to sleep. She didn't see a problem back then, but she knows what he meant now. She feels drained. Maybe he did have a point.

"I know." The words are delivered with sadness, and if anyone does know, it's him. He knows what every case takes out of her, and he knows that if she doesn't leave some for herself, she soon won't have any to give to anyone. "But you can talk to me. It's easier if you talk about it. I never said you need to leave work at work. I bring it home with me, just as much as you do."

"I'm just glad I have you to come home to. And do stuff like this." She looks around, letting the wind ruffle her hair. It makes her feel alive. He makes her feel alive. "You knew I needed this."

"I knew you needed to unwind for a moment. Listen, what you said before to Dawson, about remembering what's good in the world?" She nods, remembering. "You're that for me."

They're no longer walking. She needs to look at him, feel grateful for this moment. They face each other, so that his lips can dip into hers and discover just how good what they have is.

"This is the perfect end to any day," she murmurs, already half-asleep. He has to agree with her assessment. Her body is draped all over his—the couch not really being wide enough, so she's using him as a pillow. It comes as no surprise that he doesn't mind at all.

She's close enough so that every inch of air around them smells like her, and there is no smell he loves more. He lifts his head from the pillow enough to press a soft kiss against her temple.

It doesn't even matter that the movie he picked ended up being extremely boring, and that she started snoozing after twenty minutes. It doesn't matter that she shook popcorn all over the floor, where it's currently residing until he'll clean it up tomorrow.

It just matters that they're together. Because together is his favourite place to be and his favourite thing to do.

"Jay?"

"Hm?"

"If I fall asleep on the couch will you carry me to the bedroom?"

He chuckles, ignoring the fact that she has been sleeping for the past hour, drooling on his shirt. As if he didn't always do it, without her having to ask, sometimes without her even knowing about it. She would slip into a deep slumber, not waking even when he lifted her body and carried her to their bed. She wouldn't wake—not even when he joined her in bed, and she shimmied closer in search of his warmth (or perhaps closeness, he could never be sure).

"Of course," he promises. He thinks that if this is what he does for the rest of his life, it will be more than enough. Because her slow breathing and adorable little snorts are everything he needs to be happy.


End file.
